Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) by MacLaren Sharlene

Author:MacLaren, Sharlene [MacLaren, Sharlene]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Whitaker House
Published: 2013-11-24T22:00:00+00:00

21

Flora Connors adjusted her hat. The thing was big and heavy, not to mention uncomfortable on such a hot day, but it simply wasn’t proper to leave the house without one, so she’d donned it at the last minute, while one of Virgil’s hired hands had hitched up the buggy. In her estimation, women these days didn’t dress appropriately, particularly when going into town. Many went straight from gardening or doing household chores to shopping and other public activities, a most unappealing, indecent sight.

She sniffed, straightened her back, and lifted her chin high as she pulled the reins to the right, directing her horse onto Blakemore Street and then heading south, toward Wood and the center of Paris. She had a long list of errands, after which she planned on stopping by the blacksmith shop to say hello to Samuel, since he didn’t have the decency to pay her a visit. She couldn’t believe how inconsiderate he’d become since marrying that Evans woman. She refused to refer to her as a Connors, much less her daughter-in-law, no matter the legitimacy of the union. She would never forgive Samuel for committing such treason against his family.

Flora found a shady spot to park her buggy in front of Paris Bank and Trust. She climbed down, looped the reins around a hitching post, brushed off her bell skirt, and adjusted her hat again. Stepping up onto the wooden sidewalk, she nodded at a couple of Paris citizens as they strolled by, then opened the big, heavy door of the bank and walked inside. Several customers stood in line, single file. Next time, she would come earlier, to avoid the crowds. She draped the long strap of her satchel over her shoulder and released a long sigh.

It must have been a loud sigh, for several heads turned in her direction. One of them, regrettably, belonged to Wilma Whintley.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Connors! Looks like we’ve got a little wait here. Fortunately, it’s not as hot today as yesterday. Must be a storm’s brewin’. My gout always acts up when the weather’s about to make a drastic change. How are you doin’? You’re lookin’ mighty fine in that lovely getup. I must say, purple becomes you.”

Flora forced a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Whintley. I’m fine, and you?” She was hardly in the mood for conversing with the likes of Wilma Whintley, a busybody if ever there was one, and she thanked the Lord she didn’t have the woman’s reputation for incessant blather. As the widow of Ernest Connors, her image was one of courage, strength, and resilience. Through her husband’s six years of undeserved incarceration, until his sudden death due to illness, she’d stood by his side, and folks respected her for it. Oh, they might not admit it to her face, but it showed in their expressions. And she didn’t need any public association with Wilma Whintley tarnishing her fine image.

“Oh, gracious me, I’m as fine as a silver spoon. Never better. Well, except for this gout, as I mentioned.

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